It is 11pm on New Year's Eve and my darling friend and are driving along the BQE on our way to the East Village. Admiring the brilliantly lit skyline. Again.
Have you seen this thing?
Two-and-a-half years living in this city and not an ounce of it has gotten old, it hasn't remotely lost its luster. And I don't think that it will. Truthfully. It is simultaneously majestic and alluring and exciting and overwhelming, and straight-up amazing.
What is that?! And I point up towards the ginormous structure scraping the sky that appears to have been encrusted entirely with rhinestones. It's stunning.
"Buddy. That's the Freedom Tower."
Nuh-UH!
"Yeah. Super pretty, right?"
I mean, it's...it's so beautiful.
"I know."
We continue winding our way through neighborhood after neighborhood, dodging crazy traffic and crazier pedestrians, blaring Florence + the Machine as loudly as is humanly possible. Grinning. Pumped. Bopping around in the Honda without a single care in the world.
Ohhhhhh, it's gonna be a good year, Love.
"Yeah. If it doesn't end first."
It won't. It can't, and it won't.
When the ball dropped in Times Square and the fireworks began to go off, I was somewhere in the middle of Warrior I and Warrior II, partaking in my first ever NYE Midnight-Yoga class. Breathing out the toxins from the old year and taking in the pure pureness of the new. Feeling brilliant. Feeling excited. Feeling ready to take on the world and feeling like everyone needed to know about it.
(HELL yeah, you fighter, you resilient fighter, you!)
2012 was my delightful little oyster; I was owning it an hour in.
... ... ...And then I went home, gargled some salt water and some peroxide, popped an Augmentin and a painkiller and stared in my bathroom mirror at the stitches cruelly decorating my upper lip.
For real, you cannot go away soon enough.
And thusly began my New Year.
...
When it comes to booking gigs, there are three criteria for actors:
1) Talent. (You should probably have some.)
2) People. (You should probably know some, or know people who know some.)
3) Appearance. (You should probably look ok. Or interesting. ...Or, at the very least, blemish-free.)
**SIDEBAR: Hygiene is a different thing altogether, some people find it "chic" to look unhygienic--I don't...--however, their hygiene is typically still pretty sound. (Pomade, strategically etched make-up and thrift store-magic can work wonders, ah swear to gahd.) But you throw this wrench of "Look at this crap on my face!" into the mix and you don't have a make-up artist on-hand to make your life joyous and your oopses forgivable...I mean, then you have a serious problem, my friend. A serious. Problem.**
And so, when I found myself running to the ER in Buffalo on Friday at 3:30am with my uncle, cousin and a gaping hole in my upper lip in tow (...Also, for the record, dogs are great. I love them. SO much. And they love me back, one dog in particular. But no matter how much you love them and they love you back, it is not the wisest of ideas to startle them with a hug. I'm putting that out there. Do what you will with the advice. ...You have been warned.), once in the hospital, all the middle school-girls buried deep in the recesses of my self-consciousness were incredibly quick join us.
(UGH! Ohmygod, you look so. Stupid.)
Shut it.
(Your lip is like. Huge.)
Hey.
(And like. Bloody. And huge.)
Hey!
(All the boys are gonna think you're like. The opposite. Of cute.)
Wait...
(For forever.)
I mean, that doesn't...I don't care about that at all.
(Yeah. Ok. But. Who's gonna cast you. With that. Faaace?!)
...Oh. Oh no.
And I sat there on the hospital bed swinging my feet around all nervous-like while the nurse prepared a zillion needle-things and swabby-guys and the ice that had been soothing my stupid lip had long since melted into a sad puddle between my cousin and I, feeling worrisome. My sweet sweet lovely wonderful uncle picked up on this, and before I could say anything:
"Nurse. Can you tell me how long this is gonna take to heal?"
"Oh. Oh gosh, ya know, I don't know. These things are all different."
"Do you have some kind of ballpark time frame you could give us?"
"Well. It is the mouth..."
"Yeah..."
Yeah...
"And I don't think it's gonna take forever, but it certainly won't be better overnight."
"Right..."
Oh god...
"I'm only asking because, ya know, she's an actress, and these kind of things are. Ya know. Pretty important."
Yeah...
"Oh." ... ... ...(Say something. SAY SOMETHING!)
"Well. The good news is it's a clean cut, so if it scars, you probably won't notice it too much."
(AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! NOT THE RIGHT THING TO HAVE SAID!!!!!! I don't want it to scar at ALL, and what happens in the MEANtime?!?! WHAT?! HAPPENS!!! IN THE MEANTIME?!?!?!)
"You ok, Honey?"
Oh. Sure. I'm fine. I have this fun story to tell now, so, it's fine. (AHHHHH!!!!!)
"I wouldn't call it a 'fun story'."
No no, it's cool. It's totally fine. Really. (Eeeeeeeeeeeeee.....)
"OK."
Two hours and four stitches later, we're back home. And, honestly, it could look a zillion times worse.
The next day, the rest of my family either doesn't notice or believes that I have a cold sore. (Criminy. I don't have herpes.) But it's fine.
The next day, I'm sore, the inside of my mouth is slightly inflamed, but generally, the same story as the day before.
The next day, New Year's Day, back in the city:
"AH! Oh my god! What happened to you?!" Awesome.
"I didn't notice anything. Really."
"It's so so small. It's fine."
"That looks fucking painful."
"I thought it was a cold sore, I didn't want to say anything."
I DON'T HAVE HERPES!!!
"Ohhhhh, Angela, that sucks."
Thanks.
Today (my legitimate favorite):
"Ooh. Honey. I think...I think you have some chocolate chips or something stuck in the corner of your mouth."
Oh. Noooo, no, it's not....nope.
And it's official: I am a walking "gross".
So now, there's this conundrum. How am I supposed to be an actor out in the world with this new friend on my face? Can everyone actually see it? Is it as totally unavoidable as I feel like it is? Will I walk into a room and have that be all anyone sees?
And how long will I be stuck with said newfound friend? A week? Two? An exceedingly long lonnnnnnng time?
How likely is it that this thing is gonna stand in my way?
The possibilities are...well, they're fucking endless, really.
And tomorrow, in like 9 hours, there is this glorious audition for a glorious role that I would be glorious for--because I do, in fact, look identical to the woman who is currently portraying her and it is, in fact, right directly smack-dab in the center of my wheelhouse--and I'm walking in there totally raring to go, as per, but with a mouth full of yikes.
...So maybe, I say Fuck it! and walk in there with my lips painted bright red.
Maybe, next time someone thinks it's a cold sore, I say Yeah. So? ...My boyfriend's cool with it....?
Maybe. Maybe I just ignore it altogether. As much as I can.
I mean, it is 2012.
It very well might be the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine.
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